


making chaff of mountains

by brella



Category: Morning Glories
Genre: Gen, Ian Is a Sack of Shit - Freeform, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brella/pseuds/brella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can be a threshing sledge, new and sharp with many teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	making chaff of mountains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariad/gifts).



> Originally written for the [all together, one and all](http://blevins.livejournal.com/29926.html?thread=653798#t653798) ficathon. I hope that, in the comic, Akiko LITERALLY BLOWS IAN'S BRAINS OUT, WITH HER _GHOST POWERS_.

When you were small, your father would pat your hair before you went to bed and gaze back at your wide and questioning eyes with tiredness that you had never understood, and he would kiss the crown of your head and hold you close and whisper, " _Akiko, shiranu ga hotoke._ " You had never liked that. It had been such an excuse, such an aversion to the wild and bright visions blurring when you dreamed, taking shape when you were awake: something spinning faster and faster, a gaunt boy with glasses, a clock whose hands point to  _8_  and  _13_.  
  
" _Hanashite_!" you would whine back, jostling his shirt sleeve, tears springing unbidden into your eyes. " _Otōsan, hanashite_!"   
  
It's kind of funny, you think in later years, that you found the answers in one of the deadest places on earth, nothing to grow but higher dunes and nothing to discover but the telltale swell of a sandstorm on the horizon. Maybe it's that sound, the rumble and the whistle, that grinds your sister's name out of your frail little memory.   
  
You had wanted to grow up so fast back then, hoping that the dance would make your legs grow longer. Now, without that too-small body, you float, directionless, hollow, down a forest path, watching the stars disappear behind the thickening trees, and you aren't so sad anymore that your bare feet can't feel last night's rain on the damp ground. 

 

* * *

 

"Please, Akiko," Fortunato implores you, voice soft and hoarse but as insistent as you have ever heard it, "Do not be angry with him; he does not... he doesn't know what he—"

But something new is coursing through you now, filling the empty space your stupid errant soul occupies, something far beyond the evil-vanquishing magic you had always wanted back when you were corporeal; it's red and it's thick and it feels like it pulls you five different directions, each leading to greater fury than the last. Maybe this is the part where you clench your fists and vow, in an unnatural shrieking roar, that you'll kill, that you'll avenge, that this is  _it_ , and the music will start and the blood will spill and nobody will ever forget your name—安希子, a cup overflowing with hope and peace, forever a child, even when you tear the world to shreds and don't even bother building a new and better one because  _they don't deserve it_ —and maybe this is the part where everything changes, because everyone will fear you, everyone will run, everyone will die.   
  
You gasp, choking on the air in your own throat, stumbling back, flattening against the wall of the cell. You have never scared yourself as much as you did right then. This is not what you are. You're no avenging angel; you're supposed to be the one with mercy and wisdom and optimism, a leaning in your heart toward open skies and budding flowers.   
  
"Wh— _Why_?" you hear yourself ask, no spite, just whimpering shock and hurt and disbelief at the fact that Ian, stupid Ian, Ian whose comics you would steal and Ian who you'd share your dessert with and Ian you hugged in secret when you all first got here, to the Academy, because it had been years and you'd underestimated how good it would feel to see old friends... that Ian would turn into something so black and bitter, spitting, snarling. For Christ's sake, it's  _Ian_ ; what can he do? What could he ever do? How could he ever—  
  
"For love, he says," Fortunato whispers. His shirt has begun to reek, but you can turn off your senses if you want to. One of the perks. "There is still something there worth saving, Akiko, if he is doing it for..."   
  
"No!" you shout, throwing your arms out, hair swinging sharply, and you think the air shakes a little because Fortunato flinches back. It doesn't stop you. "No, Fortunato, people do  _good_  things for love, okay?! That's why it always wins! He wouldn't know love if it pissed in his eye!"   
  
"Akiko, please..." Fortunato sounds uncomfortable, but whether it's at the profanity, the visual, or the mention of eyes, you really have no clue. "If you only spoke with him—"  
  
"No," you repeat, fists shaking at your sides, head bowed. "He wouldn't hear me anyway."   
  
You drift closer to Fortunato, sinking down beside him, hands cautiously grazing his bandages. He doesn't instinctively move away like he used to. Something thick and hot fills your throat, and scratches.   
  
"I'm staying right here," you promise. "If that pisswad comes back, I'll be here. Don't be scared, okay?"   
  
"I am not," Fortunato says quietly, lifting his hand, fingers open. Realizing what he's looking for, you carefully slip your fingers into the spaces between his, and he holds them, and you swear, you  _swear_  that tiny movement at the edges of his lips is something moving toward a smile. "I have you."   
  
So you lied to Fortunato. Big deal. 

 

* * *

 

He looks taller. Skinnier, maybe, if that's possible. You flex your fingers, the movement making a noise two decibels below silence, and watch him from behind, no longer the barely crying girl you'd been the last time you'd seen him, so much stronger now, no longer afraid of where you are, what you are, the things you can do. You concentrate on the feeling of your body breathing, somewhere far beneath, and wash out the phantom memory of Ian's shoulder on your knuckles, Ian's elbow against yours when he would sit just a little closer to you than he needed to. 

"Hey, dumbass," you call, summoning wind, summoning noise. Only a small portion of the change in the air is yours: the cylinder is turning, faster and faster, distorting the light until it bleeds. You wish you were a superhero. You wish that this made sense, that this was  _right_.   
  
Ian turns slowly. His face has changed; not in shape or features, but in presentation, a monstrous smugness, a twisting smile and maddened eyes. When he sees you, it falls away, and so does all the remaining color in his cheeks; he gapes at you, blank, arms hanging limp at his sides.   
  
"A—" He shakes his head as if to ward something off, taking off his glasses and squinting. " _Akiko_?"   
  
"You gross me out, Ian, you know that?" you shout to him, feet slowly rising off the ground. You could split him down the middle. You could turn him inside out. "I thought you were  _better_. Shows how stupid  _I_  am, I guess."   
  
"You're—You can't be here," he sputters, fumbling his glasses back on and taking a heavy step forward. "Christ, Akiko, you're in a coma; he—he  _put_  you in one."   
  
"Who; Fortunato?" you snap. "That guy who never did a bad thing to you, who kept sticking up for you even after you told him you'd obliterate him from existence? Yeah, sounds like a real jerk."   
  
"No, but I'm doing it for you!" Ian exclaims, spreading his arms wide in insistence. "To bring you back! To make it so he never got in the  _way_ , so he never hurt you!"   
  
" _You're_  the one who hurt me, Ian!" The air rings around the volume of the words and the throbbing thing growing in your chest. "You're the one who was stupid enough to think it had to either be you or him! This isn't fixing  _anything_!" 

"You really think he cares?" Ian cries, eyes desperate now, voice cracking. "All the guy ever bloody does is pray and pray, say he doesn't want any of this—aren't I doing him a favor, then, if he never wanted to be here in the first place?"  
  
You swiftly raise a hand to slap him. He's close enough for you to do it now, but your arm shakes, and so does your lower lip, even though you try to keep it stiff. You want to be back on your mom's lap after a recital, hair in two buns, out of breath but happy, so happy, so sure that lovely things were ahead, somewhere far above the lights of the bustling city. You want to be underwater, at the top of a mountain, soaring through the sky, in your old elementary school desk, right by the window, in the back, staring distantly at the ambling clouds. But you aren't. You're here. You've always been destined to be.   
  
"I—I loved you, Akiko, all right?" Ian rasps, reaching tentatively toward your cheek, nose starting to run. "And you never even wanted me. I was ready to give you  _everything_ , and now I  _can_. I can start over. Don't you want that?"   
  
"Fuck you!" you spit, drawing sharply away, hugging your shoulders and baring your teeth. "I want my best friend back! Don't you get it? I loved you, too!  _And_  him! Love isn't just something you set aside for one person, Ian, that's selfish and greedy and stupid!"  
  
"Akiko, come on, it's going to be amazing," he whispers, his own voice a little choked now, and he steps closer to you again, moving like he's going to hug you. "Forget him."   
  
You can't hold it in anymore. You think of the desert nights and the stars and the shapes he would show you and you think of the bus ride and the dust gathering behind you both and having faith that things would be okay, you'd see him again someday, your stupid best friend. Blinking hot tears out of your eyes, wrenching your body down and your arm back for a punch, you grip your fist and swing and scream, " _AHOU_!"  
  
It's less an insult and more a curse, a demand of why, a cry for retribution, and you know your hand will just go through his head and do nothing, the way it goes through everything else.   
  
You don't expect it to shatter his glasses, first, in an instant, break the bones in his nose until blood bursts out, push his brain out through his ear. You don't expect the gurgling scream, the twitching, the whites of his protuberant eyes. Red splatters onto the floor, then drips—then sprays.   
  
Ian Simon gets no last words. Maybe because you tore his tongue out, too. You gasp so loudly it may as well be a yelp, yanking your arm back so fast you know it would give you whiplash, or something like it, if you still had a body, and watch him crumple, a mess of disjointed limbs and a mangled face, all caved in on the side where you had touched him.   
  
The cylinder stops moving. A voice leaps in from down the hallway, getting closer: "Guys, come on, hurry; it's in here! He's gonna—"   
  
You scream with your whole being. It pierces the sky in two, somewhere, just a sliver, tears apart a few stars, and shakes the walls, the earth—the ground beneath your feet splits and opens and there are flames down there, the primordial chaos in its most nascent stage, or at least you think it does. Although your eyes are wide, wide open, fingernails digging into your scalp, spine curled forward, you can't be sure you see anything except Ian's corpse, faceless, still spasming.   
  
And you think you hear your father's voice:  _Akuin akka. Akuin akka_.


End file.
